ROBERT DEWITT: ‘Bear’ can rest a little bit more peacefully now

Published: Wednesday, February 6, 2013 at 3:30 a.m.

Last Modified: Tuesday, February 5, 2013 at 7:14 p.m.

TUSCALOOSA | When I think back on that winter and spring 30 years ago, the image that always comes to mind is bleakness.

I was living in a basement level apartment with gun-slit windows that seemed perpetually cold. Very little light got in, anyway, and what did seemed to get absorbed into the dark, sheet-paneled walls and ugly green carpet.

Campus always goes through a transformation from fall to winter. What was once lively and colorful suddenly seems drab and lifeless. Bare branches frame everything. Instead of lingering in sunny spots between classes wearing colorful clothing like songbirds looking for a mate, students take direct lines between buildings, tightly clad in drab, heavy winter coats.

It seemed particularly bleak on that late January day when I stood on the curb in front of Bryant-Denny Stadium and watched the hearse roll past. I don’t know why every Alabama fan in America didn’t want to stand exactly where I was on that day. But there was plenty of room.

Of course, the news cameras wanted to shoot pictures of the hearse rolling past the stadium where Coach Paul W. “Bear” Bryant had spent so many successful Saturday afternoons. So you can see me in a good many of the video and photo images, standing there in my L.L. Bean overcoat with the fur collar, my hand over my heart.

I didn’t know what else to do with my hands, and I didn’t have a hat to take off and hold over my heart. So I’m standing there looking like I’m saying the pledge of allegiance with no flag anywhere to be seen.

I’m not crying like a lot of the people you see in the videos. I’d done that the night that I found out he died, embarrassingly in front of my roommate. I’d been fine when he handed me a straight shot of whiskey and told me the news. But when I called my parents to tell them the news, the tears came.

It’s not like I knew him personally. The two up-close encounters I’d had with him certainly left no impression on him. The first was as a freshman during the annual melee that was called “registration.” Students swarmed what was then called “Memorial Coliseum” trying to secure their classes for the coming semester. They jostled and pushed and gave ground to no one.

And yet suddenly they parted as miraculously as the Red Sea before the Israelites. I heard a hushed muttering, saw the people stepping back so that he could pass and then he strode past me, giant-like, taller than everyone else with a big smile that a 35-6 licking of Ohio State in the Sugar Bowl had put on his face.

The other was when I interviewed him in his office. Everything about the experience made me feel inadequate. I felt like the baby-blue Izod sweater I wore made me look like a sissy. I couldn’t get my hand around his enormous, hard, calloused farmer’s paw to properly grip it for our handshake. I overstayed my welcome and he got annoyed. Listening to the tape of the interview years later and comparing notes with other reporters, I found out my experience was par for the course — not nearly as bad as I thought.

No matter how distant he was, he seemed close to us who loved Alabama football at that time. I felt vaguely responsible for what had happened, almost as if I had abandoned my post at a critical moment. I moved to Louisiana in 1982 for my first real job, and while I was gone, the entire Alabama football empire came unraveled. And within a month of my return to graduate school, the emperor was dead.

People who don’t belong to our particular football fraternity don’t really understand how we felt about him and why losing him affected us the way that it did. Some think we’re like the South American Indians who carried the mummified remains of their fiercest king into battle before them. Pat Dye once exhorted his Auburn team not to be in awe of Alabama, that the team wasn’t magic. Then he added that there had been magic but it had died with “Coach Bryant.”

It did seem that way — that he was more than a great football coach; that he could actually conjure victories. And when he adopted the wishbone offense it was like that was his incantation.

But there was something else, too, maybe connected to that magic, maybe not. I recently watched a DVD of an old “Bear Bryant Show” from the 1970s. And it was as if a piece of what I’m talking about was trapped in that DVD. It came though from that hokey show with the glass bottles of Coca Cola, and Dub Taylor cackling on the commercials about Golden Flake having “Southern fried crunch” and, of course, in Bryant’s mumbled digressions.

There was something in it that was comforting to those of us who love Alabama football. It was like going to your grandparent’s house and everything that was there, the furnishings, the food and especially the people, made it the best place to be in the world. Then, after he died, it was like going back to that house after the people were dead and gone and everything is still in the same place, but the life essence of it is gone.

That was what we missed from Alabama football after he was gone. It took us a long time to figure out that it was never going to be the same. We had to get used to the idea that it was going to be different. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t be good.

And now, 30 years later, we realize that it can be different and still be really good — great, in fact. Those of us who remember him will always miss him. But I think we’ve reached a point where we can let him rest a little bit more peacefully.

Robert DeWitt is senior writer for The Tuscaloosa News. Readers can email him at robert.

<p>TUSCALOOSA | When I think back on that winter and spring 30 years ago, the image that always comes to mind is bleakness.</p><p>I was living in a basement level apartment with gun-slit windows that seemed perpetually cold. Very little light got in, anyway, and what did seemed to get absorbed into the dark, sheet-paneled walls and ugly green carpet.</p><p>Campus always goes through a transformation from fall to winter. What was once lively and colorful suddenly seems drab and lifeless. Bare branches frame everything. Instead of lingering in sunny spots between classes wearing colorful clothing like songbirds looking for a mate, students take direct lines between buildings, tightly clad in drab, heavy winter coats.</p><p>It seemed particularly bleak on that late January day when I stood on the curb in front of Bryant-Denny Stadium and watched the hearse roll past. I don't know why every Alabama fan in America didn't want to stand exactly where I was on that day. But there was plenty of room.</p><p>Of course, the news cameras wanted to shoot pictures of the hearse rolling past the stadium where Coach Paul W. “Bear” Bryant had spent so many successful Saturday afternoons. So you can see me in a good many of the video and photo images, standing there in my L.L. Bean overcoat with the fur collar, my hand over my heart.</p><p>I didn't know what else to do with my hands, and I didn't have a hat to take off and hold over my heart. So I'm standing there looking like I'm saying the pledge of allegiance with no flag anywhere to be seen.</p><p>I'm not crying like a lot of the people you see in the videos. I'd done that the night that I found out he died, embarrassingly in front of my roommate. I'd been fine when he handed me a straight shot of whiskey and told me the news. But when I called my parents to tell them the news, the tears came.</p><p>It's not like I knew him personally. The two up-close encounters I'd had with him certainly left no impression on him. The first was as a freshman during the annual melee that was called “registration.” Students swarmed what was then called “Memorial Coliseum” trying to secure their classes for the coming semester. They jostled and pushed and gave ground to no one.</p><p>And yet suddenly they parted as miraculously as the Red Sea before the Israelites. I heard a hushed muttering, saw the people stepping back so that he could pass and then he strode past me, giant-like, taller than everyone else with a big smile that a 35-6 licking of Ohio State in the Sugar Bowl had put on his face.</p><p>The other was when I interviewed him in his office. Everything about the experience made me feel inadequate. I felt like the baby-blue Izod sweater I wore made me look like a sissy. I couldn't get my hand around his enormous, hard, calloused farmer's paw to properly grip it for our handshake. I overstayed my welcome and he got annoyed. Listening to the tape of the interview years later and comparing notes with other reporters, I found out my experience was par for the course — not nearly as bad as I thought.</p><p>No matter how distant he was, he seemed close to us who loved Alabama football at that time. I felt vaguely responsible for what had happened, almost as if I had abandoned my post at a critical moment. I moved to Louisiana in 1982 for my first real job, and while I was gone, the entire Alabama football empire came unraveled. And within a month of my return to graduate school, the emperor was dead.</p><p>People who don't belong to our particular football fraternity don't really understand how we felt about him and why losing him affected us the way that it did. Some think we're like the South American Indians who carried the mummified remains of their fiercest king into battle before them. Pat Dye once exhorted his Auburn team not to be in awe of Alabama, that the team wasn't magic. Then he added that there had been magic but it had died with “Coach Bryant.”</p><p>It did seem that way — that he was more than a great football coach; that he could actually conjure victories. And when he adopted the wishbone offense it was like that was his incantation.</p><p>But there was something else, too, maybe connected to that magic, maybe not. I recently watched a DVD of an old “Bear Bryant Show” from the 1970s. And it was as if a piece of what I'm talking about was trapped in that DVD. It came though from that hokey show with the glass bottles of Coca Cola, and Dub Taylor cackling on the commercials about Golden Flake having “Southern fried crunch” and, of course, in Bryant's mumbled digressions.</p><p>There was something in it that was comforting to those of us who love Alabama football. It was like going to your grandparent's house and everything that was there, the furnishings, the food and especially the people, made it the best place to be in the world. Then, after he died, it was like going back to that house after the people were dead and gone and everything is still in the same place, but the life essence of it is gone.</p><p>That was what we missed from Alabama football after he was gone. It took us a long time to figure out that it was never going to be the same. We had to get used to the idea that it was going to be different. But that didn't mean it couldn't be good.</p><p>And now, 30 years later, we realize that it can be different and still be really good — great, in fact. Those of us who remember him will always miss him. But I think we've reached a point where we can let him rest a little bit more peacefully.</p><p>Robert DeWitt is senior writer for The Tuscaloosa News. Readers can email him at robert.</p><p>dewitt@tuscaloosanews.com.</p>